


Skin Deep and Drowning

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Piercings, Prompt Fill, Sexual Tension, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24373468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sylvain stumbles into a tattoo parlor at his drunken worst and stumbles out nursing wounded pride and a brand new crush.(Kinkmeme fill for tattoo artist/piercer Felix and Sylvain with a crush)
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 35
Kudos: 256
Collections: Anonymous, FE3H Kink Meme





	1. i’m the night sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [this kinkmeme prompt](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=924636#cmt924636): _Felix is a tattoo artist and piercer.  
>  Sylvain is a frequent customer who is really only there because he has a crush.  
> That's it, really..._

Women only want Sylvain for one thing, but Daphne’s different. 

It’s not every day a girl buys him drinks _and_ goes down on him in the middle a club. Top shelf shit, too—the booze and the blowjob—so she must want him for his body and not his money.

“Baby, I’m gonna tattoo your name on my chest,” Sylvain says because he’s in love. 

Daphne zips his pants back up and licks her lips. “Do it, babe, I know just the place.”

And then they’re stumbling into the elevator, out the door, down the sidewalk, kissing and feeling each other up. 

“I’m gonna put it right here,” Sylvain tells her, ripping his shirt open and running his hands over his pecs in an arch that she follows with her tongue, and he’s definitely going to marry this girl.

They burst through a door into the darkest dentist office Sylvain’s ever seen, but what else could explain the buzzing? Half-naked people lie on massage tables, there are skulls and shit on the walls, dirty bass on the speakers, and needles everywhere;  _ fuck _ , this chick is kinky. 

“I love you,” Sylvain confesses, grabbing her and kissing her wet and breathless. When she paws at his chest, he remembers: this is a tattoo parlor, he’s getting a tattoo, and he whirls around (without falling, thank you very much) and cries out, “Shopkeep!”

Shit, she must have slipped him a pill because the vision that appears before Sylvain’s eyes is too beautiful to be real. The most gorgeous creature he’s ever seen, actually, with long, blue-black hair spun from the night sky, studs like stars on his skin. Sylvain can’t decide which one to focus on: ears, nose, lip, eyebrow, but it doesn’t matter because those eyes are where it’s at, molten copper and so intense, angry even though Sylvain is a paying customer. It’s enough to make Sylvain shiver, and he hasn’t even let his eyes roam over all of those tattoos peeking out from under that tank top because he’s too drunk to handle that right now. 

His baby mama or whatever tugs on his arm, and Sylvain realizes he’s drooling. About someone else. Oops. Back to business. He pounds a fist on his chest and demands, “Tattoo this beautiful woman’s name right here.” 

And that angel from his nightmare, that radiant specter of ink and surgical-grade steel looks him dead in the eyes and says, “No.” 

Sylvain’s not used to hearing the word _no_ , and it takes even longer to soak through the alcohol. “What the fuck? Why not?”

The vampire doesn’t even respond, just points at a sign Sylvain can’t read because he didn’t wear his glasses and his vision got even blurrier sometime around drink number six.

“It says customers have to be sober,” says his future wife. “Clearly, they have no idea who you are.”

Sylvain cringes—even drunk, he doesn’t like the sound of that. “Ooh, let’s not play that card, baby.”

But she plows on, “This is  _ Sylvain Jose Gautier,  _ and I’ll have you know his father owns this building.”

That knocks about a hundred points off the soulmate meter but she has no gag reflex so she’s still solidly in the running, especially since this vampire seems to hate him more by the second.

“More importantly”—Sylvain steps in front of her—“what does a little alcohol matter when it’s true love?”

“True love, huh?” The vampire arches that pierced eyebrow and asks, “What’s her name?”

_ Well, fuck. _ Sylvain knows this one,  _ he knows it, _ but his head is swimming with barbed wire, spikes, and blue flowers that should clash but harmonize perfectly on ivory skin, and he blurts out, “Rose.” 

“What the hell?” Rose slaps him so fast he doesn’t realize it until he’s staring at the wall. “My name is Christina.”

Oh, shit, he was  _ way _ off. Sylvain rubs his jaw and the vampire smirks at him; the way it pulls at that lip piercing does things to Sylvain’s dick.

“Then how about your name instead?” Sylvain strokes his chest as he offers, and the vampire  _ definitely _ looks down—those hard eyes only soften for a split-second, but it’s long enough to change Sylvain’s life.

“Answer’s still no.” The vampire stalks to the door, opens it, and flips the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. “And I don’t give a fuck who your father is, because this is still my business and I’m asking you to leave.”

It sure doesn’t sound like asking, but a Sylvain doesn’t get the chance to comment before what’s-her-name slaps his other cheek—at least he’ll bruise evenly—and stomps out, heels clicking on the tile. Damn, Sylvain’s gonna miss that ass.

“You, too, Romeo,” says the vampire. “I’m asking. Nicely. Don’t make me use force.”

And even though Sylvain’s got the height advantage by 4 or 5 inches, he doesn’t like the odds—his date already kicked his ass and unless this fight ends with this inked angel on top of him, he wants nothing to do with it. 

Still, he takes one more stab at it. “Is that a promise? I like a little discipline.”

It doesn’t win him any points. All it gets him is a death glare and one word: “Out.”

As much as Sylvain  _ wants, _ he doesn’t want trouble, so he picks his pride up off the floor and says, “Sorry, sorry, I’ll get out of your hair.”  _ Your beautiful, sky-spun hair. _

Sylvain trudges out of the shop, the door slams behind him, and he takes one last look at the sign.  _ Aegis Ink.  _

It’s still in his head when he wakes up, hungover as hell and sore on both sides of his face. Somehow, he still digs out his high school Latin: shield. Protection. Sylvain likes the sound of that. Protection from filthy gold-diggers like what’s-her-name. 

Sylvain can’t even remember what she looks like, but he can’t get the tattoo shop proprietor out of his head. No one talks to Sylvain like that, and he wants more, someone who won’t kiss his ass because of who his father is. Someone with piercing (har har) brown eyes, a delightful smirk, and the prettiest tattoos in the world, who would have maybe someday (in Sylvain’s dreams) literally kissed his ass if he hadn’t made such an ass of himself last night. 

And maybe he’s still drunk, but before he gets out of bed, he’s on his phone ordering dyed blue roses from the middle of fucking nowhere to be delivered to that tattoo parlor for a an exorbitant amount of money because Sylvain’s not above using the family fortune for good. Once it’s done, he goes back to sleep, but this time he dreams of the night sky, sparkling with steel-grey stars.

———

Intricate lace requires intense focus, and Dorothea is one of Felix’s best customers. He isn’t going to fuck this up. So when the shop bell rings, he ignores it, doesn’t hear Ignatz accepting a delivery or setting the giant vase down on the counter. He doesn’t notice anything until the session’s done, Dorothea’s happy, and he can finally relax. 

That’s when he sees the blue roses, straight out of his sleeve tattoo, only there’s two dozen of them. They can’t possibly be for anyone else.

“What the fuck?!” Felix demands. “Who sent these?”

“No idea,” says Ignatz. “But they’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

Aesthetically, sure, but so’s a tiger. That doesn’t mean Felix wants to get close to one outside a zoo. He’s had admirers before, and they’re always freaks who assume he’s going to do whatever kinky shit they want just because he’s got tattoos and piercings. 

Carefully, like they’re gonna bite him, Felix approaches the flowers. There’s a card sticking out, small and unassuming, and he plucks it out without touching the petals.

He turns it over.

_ I’m sorry. _

_ -Romeo _

“Fuck.” It’s even worse than he thought. 

“What?” asks Petra from across the room, next to the autoclave. “Who is sending them?”

“That drunken idiot from yesterday,” Felix mutters. He grabs the vase and deposits the whole thing into the trash can.

“What a waste,” Ignatz moans.

“Take them,” Felix says before turning to the next customer.

Ignatz does, and Felix regrets letting him have them, because every time he goes in the break room, he has to look at them, brash and obnoxious on the table. He twists his arm to inspect his own roses—is that what other people see? Fuck that guy for ruining Felix’s favorite tattoo. Maybe Felix can have Ignatz make them black instead.

But as the day wears on, he has to admit they’re beautiful. They’re unnatural and weird, and it’s really not that deep (plus, seeing them on his arm makes his dad really mad).

So when he’s alone in the back room, Felix slips one flower out of the bouquet and into his jacket, and the moment he gets home, he hangs it in his closet to dry.

It doesn’t have to mean anything.

And when he empties his pockets and finds the card from  _ Romeo _ (aka Sylvain Jose Gautier, son of his fucking landlord), he tosses it onto his dresser—but that doesn’t mean anything, either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another wip? In this economy? 
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you like this, OP! Thanks for reading, I will continue it soon. :)


	2. i’m the fire in your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain has an itch to scratch, but it’s not about Felix.

Sylvain is trying very hard not to be creepy.

He hasn’t gone back to the tattoo shop, even though he thinks about it. A lot. Almost as often as he thinks about the tattoo artist.

A little online searching nets him a few articles—public ones, from established publications anyone can access, so it’s not creepy—and a name.

> They say if you can make it in Ailell, you can make it anywhere, and Felix Fraldarius, 23, is living proof. Forged in fire like the swords he famously depicts, Felix apprenticed under legendary artist Shamir Nevrand for two years before establishing his own shop, Aegis Ink, in his native Faerghus. In that time, his designs have been featured in  
>  _Ink Life, Tattoo Nation,_ and _Skin Spy,_ and he was voted Newcomer of the Year by Bodyworks.com. And that’s to say nothing of his 250,000 online followers. But little is known about the man himself. Notoriously reluctant to give interviews, Felix keeps the focus on his art...

And his art is spectacular. His swords look sharp enough to cut and there isn’t a flower he can’t bring to life. Lineart, full color, intricate, simple—Felix does it all, and even though Sylvain’s never even considered a tattoo before in his life, he wants flowers on his skin just so he can see Felix again and wear a piece of his soul forever.

But that would be creepy, and Sylvain isn’t creepy. Felix probably wouldn’t take kindly to seeing him in the shop again, but he could live rent free in Sylvain’s head. 

And since Sylvain can’t be arrested for thought crimes, it’s not creepy when he imagines a pair of strong, tattooed arms reaching around his waist to choke his cock. 

It’s definitely not creepy when he imagines himself face down in that tattoo chair, getting flowers drawn on his ass and a pierced dick shoved up it. He’s more of a top, but something about the pain of the tattoo and the tight stretch of pleasure is doing it for him in this fantasy. 

But it’s not about Felix—Sylvain doesn’t even know if his dick is pierced. Besides, lots of people do tattoos for a living. Lots of people have tattoos. 

Lots of guys, to be more specific. 

Because that’s what it boils down to, isn’t it? After all of these gold-digging women, Sylvain’s ready to indulge his dormant bisexuality again. Not that guys can’t be gold-diggers, but until they turn on him, it’s going to hit different. He hasn’t been with a man in years, and that attraction never went away. Clearly, he’s not lusting after Felix; he just wants to get his dick another kind of wet. 

But how do guys find other guys? All his dating apps are geared toward men seeking women, and aside from Felix, Sylvain isn’t even sure what kind of guy he’s looking for. He wants to see the talent for himself. 

It was so easy in college; by the time he graduated, half his frat house had come to him out of curiosity, and he’d always been happy to indulge them. The guys would either decide it wasn’t for them and go back to chicks, or decide it was and move on with someone else. It never bothered Sylvain one way or the other. 

He didn’t want a relationship then and he doesn’t want one now. He just wants some dick.

It’s still on his mind when he gets to work, by the time his mid-morning coffee break rolls around, he can’t focus on the book he’s supposed to be fact-checking. 

Then Ashe walks by his office and inspiration hits Sylvain in a flurry. How lucky that  _ Ashe Ubert  _ of all his coworkers would just happen to choose that moment to stop at the water cooler. Sylvain almost skips to the door.

“Ashe!” he calls. “You’re bi!”

Ashe turns around, a look of utter confusion on his face. “Um, good morning to you too, Sylvain.”

“Yeah, so like…” Sylvain runs a hand through his hair and leans against the wall, trying to look as casual as possible. “Where do you go to meet guys?” 

He’s met with an arched eyebrow. “Are you coming onto me?” Ashe asks.

“No!” Sylvain waves his hands in front of his chest. A sexual harassment charge is the last thing he needs; he’s already on thin ice after getting caught in the copy room with Corinne from Finance. “No. No-no-no. I’m bi, too! But let’s just say I’m out of practice.”

Ashe’s eyes go wide and he takes a step back, like he’s afraid Sylvain’s going to try to kiss him. 

“No!” Sylvain shouts. He glues his arms to his sides. “You’re not really my type, but you’re a handsome guy, a hip guy, and I just want to know where to meet other handsome, hip guys.”

He sounds entirely uncool. Is this just how he is around guys? Is that why he made such an ass of himself in front of Felix? Being drunk usually helped his game but he still remembered the way Felix had looked at him: so judgemental, so cold.

But that smirk. Seeing those pursed, pressed lips turn up even just for a moment had been the highlight of his year.

That sounds pathetic, even to Sylvain. 

“...but Mortal Savant plays better music.”

Shit, he missed Ashe’s whole spiel. But good music is enough for him, and Sylvain is nothing if not a good faker. “Mortal Savant it is! You wanna go after work? Be my wingman?” 

Ashe looks thoughtful, but at least he’s not a deer in headlights anymore. “Sure. Why not?”

“Awesome! Venturing back into the world of guy-on-guy will be so much better with another guy!” 

Sylvain leans in for a high five but Ashe ducks away and shouts, “Can my boyfriend come too?”

“Of course he’s welcome to come!” Sylvain insists, because he’s not hitting on Ashe. “What time works for you?”

“How about eight?” 

In those three words, it hits him: he and Ashe lead very different lives. “Are clubs even open that early?” 

Ashe just laughs, even though it wasn’t a joke. Eight o’clock leaves Sylvain no time; he needs to shower and groom, pick an outfit, get dressed, and psyche himself up.

“See you later, Sylvain.” Ashe walks off with his phone in his hand, no doubt texting his boyfriend about his creepy coworker. 

One haircut, one wax, and one shower later, Sylvain stands in front of twelve different outfits. What do men even like? Who would know? 

He’s video calling Ingrid before his brain catches up to his fingers. 

“Sylvain?” Ingrid wrinkles her nose in disgust. “You had better not be naked.”

Oops. “I’ve got a towel on! But I need your help. What do guys like?”

That doesn’t improve Ingrid’s mood, and her eyes go narrow. “Why?”

“Look,” Sylvain says, bringing the camera back up to his face. “I know you’re used to me being the consummate ladies’ man, but sometimes I want a  _ rougher  _ touch, if you catch my drift.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, I neither need nor want to know about your bondage fanta—”

“This isn’t about bondage, Ingrid!” Although, the possibilities: Felix—no, any guy tying him up, spanking him, riding his cock with a fist in his mouth… Fuck, a boner is the last thing he needs while he’s talking to Ingrid. “I just want to date guys for a while, okay? And since you date guys, I thought I’d ask—”

“Yes. I date guys. I date guys I’ve met through reputable dating sites or mutual friends. I don’t hook up with  _ random dudes _ who hit on me, so I really don’t see how I can help you at all.”

Ouch. Well, he didn’t go to Ingrid to get his hand held, and he swaps to his forward-facing camera to show her his choices. It’s easier to be honest when the camera’s not on him. “The truth is, I’m going out to a gay bar tonight, I’m nervous, and I don’t know what to wear. Please just pick something for me.” 

Ingrid sighs. Twice. Finally, she says, “You look good in purple.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Ingrid, have I ever told you that?” He grabs the purple shirt and turns the camera back to his face. “Black jeans? Acid wash?”

“Sylvain,” Ingrid groans. “Whether you’re going after girls or guys, my advice is the same, and you never take it. Just be honest with yourself and them about what you want. I don’t know why that’s so hard for you.”

She has said that before, but she doesn’t understand. Sylvain knows what he wants. He wants a little company and a good fuck—so what if he has to lie to get it? People tell him what he wants to hear and he eats it up until one of them gets sick of the other because it’s better than being alone. 

Yes, hearing Felix treat him like shit ( _ like a normal person, _ interjects a voice that sounds an awful lot like Ingrid’s) was refreshing, but now that he’s had some distance, Sylvain knows that’s not what he’s about. It’s too complicated, because sooner or later, he’s going to hear some unpleasant truths, and he really doesn’t need another voice (besides Ingrid’s and his own) telling him why he sucks. 

“Cool, so… Black?” 

He takes Ingrid’s frustrated grunt as a yes, though he has doubts when she hangs up on him.

The outfit doesn’t look half bad, though, and even though it’s still light outside, he takes a rideshare to the club. 

It’s not empty for a Friday afternoon, but the crowd definitely doesn’t jive with Sylvain’s needs. Everywhere he looks, couples are dancing, sharing drinks, and looking positively in love, including Ashe and his boyfriend Dedue.

Dedue doesn’t say much, but he and Ashe dote on each other—holding doors, pulling out chairs, the whole deal. It’s cute, and for a split-second, Sylvain thinks he wants that genuine affection, too. Then he orders another drink.

Sometime after they tell him about their vegetable garden, the lights get dimmer, the bass gets dirtier, and the clientele changes. Ashe yawns, but Sylvain finally feels awake. This is what he came for, and he stands up. 

“You guys wanna dance?” They haven’t yet, but he didn’t really want to vibe alone while Ashe and Dedue acted like teenagers at prom. But this is a beat they can all freak to, and maybe it’s the alcohol, but the crowd looks much more attainable. 

“Why not?” says Ashe. Dedue takes him by the hand—Sylvain twitches—and the three of them head to the dance floor. 

For a stiff guy, Dedue’s a great dancer, and beer goggles do a world of favors for Ashe, but Sylvain gives them space. He scans his prospects as he dances, sliding up next to cute guys here and there but never hanging around for long. No one’s scratching that itch.

Not until when Sylvain spots him: Felix Fraldarius, in the flesh. A lot of flesh. When the club lights flash, the mesh— _ mesh— _ shirt he’s wearing shows off every single tattoo that Sylvain remembers and some he’s never seen, and—holy shit, is his nipple pierced? 

That’s what Sylvain wants—flipping a nipple ring up and down with his tongue, tugging on it with his teeth—and he’s about to go get it when he freezes in his tracks.

Felix is going to think Sylvain is a stalker. It’s only been a couple days since the flowers, and he’s nowhere near drunk enough to barrel on in.

But he is drunk enough to forget that if you can see a nipple ring, you’re probably too close. 

“You following me, Sylvain Jose Gautier?”

Sylvain can’t decide whether he likes that better than Romeo or not, but Felix came to him and that has to mean something. He’s wearing that same grouchy look and holding a drink, but he spoke first. Or rather yelled—the music is loud.

“I’ve been here since eight,” Sylvain shouts back, realizing too late it doesn’t make him sound cool, and Felix’s face reflects that. His pierced eyebrow goes up and Sylvain wants to lick that ring, too. He’s not wearing his lip ring tonight, but Sylvain doesn’t let himself stare at Felix’s mouth for too long. As a very late afterthought, he adds, “Here with some friends.” 

_ Friends _ is a stretch, but Felix doesn’t know that.

“Is that so?” Felix crosses his arms, careful not to spill whatever’s in his cup. “I figured you were just swearing off women after losing the love of your life.”

His voice drips with so much sarcasm and Sylvain could lap it up off the floor. 

“Oh yes,” he says, matching Felix’s tone and clutching his chest. “I’m heartbroken, but I’m taking soulmate applications if you’re interested.”

Felix’s face goes from grudgingly amused to annoyed, and Sylvain’s heart really does break. Those lines always work on girls. Is it a guy thing or is it a Felix thing?

“Forget it.” Felix turns around, and shit, even through the mesh his back is just as gorgeous as his front—stormy seas fading into a pure black night sky that must have hurt like a bitch.

Panic sets in. It’s still not about Felix, but this is the first time Sylvain’s dick or any other part of him has felt anything all night, and he reaches out. 

“Wait!” 

He doesn’t touch Felix, but Felix stops and looks over his shoulder, eyebrow arched again.

“How about a dance?” Sylvain asks. Felix doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t move, either. That definitely has to mean something. “No soulmates, no Shakespeare, just a dance. What do you say?”

It’s the closest he’s come to honesty in a long time—Ingrid would be proud.

Felix glares at him for a handful of pounding beats, downs his drink, and says, “I’m going to regret this.”

Those five words stitch Sylvain’s heart back together and send it through the roof. Then, Felix takes his still-extended hand and Sylvain feels things entirely unrelated to the alcohol. He pitches his cup and pulls Sylvain into the thick of the dance floor. 

A new song throbs from the speakers, shaking the floor with a beat so vile it rattles Sylvain’s bones and stirs his dick, or maybe that’s Felix’s hand in his own, cold from the drink and gripping him tight. 

Something in Felix’s eyes possesses Sylvain, overtaking his usual philosophy of  _ when in doubt, keep talking.  _ Silently, he drops Felix’s hand and takes his hip instead, pulling his body forward until they’re flush, stomach to stomach. Felix sucks in a breath but doesn’t blink, and then, they move. 

Felix’s body flows like the waves on his back, rolling in time with the bass, making Sylvain feel stiff by comparison. But since Felix insists on leading, he follows, dragging his hands up and down Felix’s sides, letting that mesh shirt wrinkle beneath his fingers. When Felix pushes, he pulls, closing his eyes and keeping their hips together even though every brush against his cock turns him on more. Felix finally puts his hands on Sylvain, and it’s torture—he goes for Sylvain’s back, gripping the fabric of his shirt, fingernails scraping his skin through the fabric, sending sparks up his spine. How is Sylvain supposed to keep his cool? He opens his eyes in an attempt to keep his head.

It’s a mistake. Felix is staring at him, focusing hard, like he’s looking for a lie, but his hands drop to Sylvain’s ass. The black jeans were the right choice, so tight they make him seem fitter than he is. But if Felix is getting handsy, so can he, and Sylvain runs his hands up the front of Felix’s shirt, stopping where the mesh is caught on his nipple ring. They’re not even dancing anymore, just grinding against each other, and that gives Sylvain the push he needs to tweak the ring. 

Felix’s lips part, so pretty Sylvain can almost hear him moan in spite of the music, and Sylvain pulls on the ring—not hard, just enough to test the waters. Eyes fluttering shut, Felix leans into him, kneading his ass while Sylvain toys with his nipple through the mesh. There’s no stopping it now—Sylvain is hard, jutting into Felix’s leg, unignorable. Felix shifts and it has to be on purpose because his dick brushes Sylvain’s. It’s unbearable, the friction, and Sylvain wants to strip him right there and rub their cocks together on the dance floor until they come.

Only one thing could make it more perfect, and he looks down at Felix, one tender hand stroking his cheek while the other plucks his nipple ring. Felix opens his eyes and he looks almost innocent, wide eyed and blinking up at Sylvain. Sylvain leans in and Felix lowers his lashes, coy. Like he wants to be kissed. Wetting his lips, Sylvain hovers, close enough to feel breath on his lips, and when Felix doesn’t back away, he closes the distance.

Or he tries to. Just before their lips meet, Felix pivots to the side so Sylvain’s mouth skids across his jaw. It’s crushing, but hope rises anew when Felix’s lips brush his ear. Maybe Felix wants to leave, or fuck behind the club, or fuck at the tattoo parlor, and Sylvain holds his breath, hanging his heart on the next words to come out of Felix’s perfect mouth. 

“Thanks for the dance.”

Then, Felix is gone, and Sylvain’s heart hits the floor. 

Maybe it is about Felix after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is getting plottier than I thought it would! I may have gone a little overboard with the UST but I hope everyone enjoyed it. 
> 
> The actual meat of the prompt is coming next time. Sorry for the wait!


	3. and i want you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix does some soul searching and Sylvain comes to a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains a brief reference to Miklan and abuse.

Felix has to bum a cigarette off a stranger outside the club. It’s his first in two months, but it’s the only reliable way to cool himself down. 

What the fuck just happened?

That wasn’t a dance. That was foreplay. 

The nipple Sylvain played with with still tingles, and his dick hasn’t gotten the message that it’s not getting any action tonight. 

Nicotine eases the tension in his shoulders, but it can’t answer the question plaguing his brain: why did he approach Sylvain in the first place?

Okay, he still has one blue rose hanging up to dry in his apartment, but that doesn’t mean he needs to go and fuck the guy. It’s been a while, sure, and the whole reason Felix went out tonight was to get laid, but Sylvain is one giant red flag, right down to his bright red hair. The guy screams  _ trust fund baby with commitment issues _ and Felix does not need that shit in his life.

Even if he is a good dancer with amazing hands and what Felix is pretty sure is the biggest cock he’s ever encountered.

The cigarette is not helping. He adjusts his pants as discreetly as he can and presses on his nipple with the heel of his hand to try to get it to stop being hard. It doesn’t work. Felix puts out the cigarette butt and flicks it into the trash. 

He texts Petra and Ignatz from outside the club, because he can’t go back inside and risk seeing Sylvain again. He might not be able to control himself.

_ you guys okay if I go home? _

Ignatz is fine with it, and just when Felix thinks he’s gotten away with it, Petra replies.

_ If you are going home with the rude customer, be sure you are using protection! _

Felix groans. First of all, he wouldn’t let that cock near his ass without a condom, no matter how big it is. Or any other cock, for that matter, but  _ especially  _ not that one. 

_ I’m not doing anything with him _

_ just need to leave _

But he’s satisfied. Petra and Ignatz will take care of each other, and Felix takes the subway home. 

He paces the kitchen, still in his club clothes, wishing he had stopped for a whole pack of cigarettes. But that’s a slippery slope. He doesn’t need a repeat of what happened after Claude said he wanted to just be friends—a pack a day. Disgusting. 

No, Felix needs constructive ways to kill the tension. 

He doodles, but all his drawings are crap. Dao and Claymore are asleep so he can’t make them chase the laser pointer. He already worked out today, so he’ll pull a muscle if he works out again. 

And every time he closes his eyes, his mind snaps back to Sylvain, holding him, grinding against him, teasing his nipple…

Felix groans. He really has no choice, does he? After making sure the cats have food and water (because he’s horny, not negligent), he goes to his room and shuts the door. He takes a few deep breaths, turns on some music—something with a slow dirty beat, it doesn’t matter what—and lets his mind go. 

Sylvain’s there, dancing with him in his room. Only they’re not dancing, just like before. They’re grinding. Felix palms himself through his jeans—he’s half hard already, still buzzing from the club. It’s easy to pretend it’s Sylvain’s hands on him, stroking his cock to its full length. The Sylvain in his fantasy is even better than the real one because he doesn’t talk, he just undoes the fastenings of Felix’s jeans and pulls them down his hips, slowly so they drag over his cock. 

His underwear comes off, too, and then Sylvain backs him onto the bed, onto his back. The shirt stays on, and Felix—no, Sylvain reaches up to find his nipple ring through the mesh again. He smiles at Felix and runs his finger over the barbed ring, just enough to pull at his nipple. Felix moans and Sylvain rubs it again, harder, and again, until he takes the ring in hand and tugs, just like he did at the club. Sparks shoot down Felix’s spine, ending up somewhere in his dick and he pulls on that, too, slow, lazy strokes up and down his shaft. 

But he doesn’t want to come too fast, so Sylvain pulls away to take off his own clothes. He’s  _ hung,  _ and Felix wants to do so many things to that cock: suck it, ride it, pierce it—he twists his nipple ring, hissing at the sensation, and pinches his other nipple. It’s not pierced, but he gets off on the difference. One tingles from the outside, the other from the inside, and he wishes Sylvain were really there to pay attention to his cock. Just imagining him going down makes Felix’s whole body tighten, and his dick throbs, precome beading at the head. Felix gives his unpierced nipple one last squeeze and grabs his cock once more, pretending it’s Sylvain’s larger hand wrapped around him instead. 

He alternates between pumping his shaft and squeezing the head, rolling his nipple ring as he goes. His whole body is buzzing, tingling everywhere, longing for Sylvain’s touch. When he closes his eyes, Sylvain’s kissing him with soft lips and a coy tongue—he’s a phenomenal kisser, Felix is sure of it. 

That kiss, the kiss they didn’t share, puts Felix past the point of no return. He jerks himself harder— _ harder, Sylvain _ —and yanks his shirt up so he can play even rougher with his piercing. Pain bleeds into pleasure and then he’s coming all over his stomach, his chest, even spurting up to his chin, with Sylvain’s name on his lips. 

His hands slow, drawing out the last of his orgasm in long, firm strokes. It’s not his proudest wank, but Felix can’t remember the last time he came that hard. He looks down at his nipple, peach turned angry red. It’s going to be sore tomorrow, but right now, the burn is exquisite. 

By the time he cleans himself up and gets ready for bed, it’s out of his system.

Until he wakes up the next morning with a tender nipple and the pressing need to finger his ass in the shower while calling Sylvain’s name. Then it’s definitely out of his system. 

“Were you having fun last night?” Petra asks when Felix gets to work. 

“I went home alone,” Felix says. 

Petra looks up from sterilizing equipment, a pitying look on her face. “That is a shame. He left right after you did, so I was thinking you lied to me.”

Felix doesn’t ask if Sylvain left alone, too.

It’s a blessedly low stress morning. Felix does a few septum piercings and one cartilage, glad he doesn’t have to focus on a complicated tattoo for a change.

Sylvain never strays far from his thoughts, but Felix doesn’t break any new ground. He can’t make sense of his own behavior—Sylvain’s obvious playboy nature makes him the perfect one night stand. That’s all Felix wants, after all. A few quick fucks to get back on the horse and cleanse the palate. He and Claude are better off as friends, or they will be, given a little time.

So why  _ didn’t _ he sleep with Sylvain? There was no danger of it lasting. Actually liking him would be preposterous—Felix’s worst decision to date.

And yet, as he’s cleaning up for the next customer, he can’t stop thinking about how the freckles that dot Sylvain’s nose look like tiny stars on his skin.

“Um, Felix?” Ignatz’s voice shakes him from his daydream. “You’ve got a walk in. He wants a tattoo consult.”

_ Ugh. _ Yes, it’s his passion and his job, but Felix just isn’t feeling it today, and the slow morning feels like a curse. Felix pastes a neutral expression on his face and turns around.

Sylvain Jose Gautier stands at the desk with his flaming red hair and skin full of stars.

Felix ignores the way his heart leaps. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Felix, you don’t even know what I want!” 

Felix ignores the way Sylvain says his name, too. “Whatever it is, I know you don’t really want it. Maybe you don’t understand the concept, but tattoos are permanent.”

“That’s awfully presumptuous of you,” said Sylvain, pouting (and not looking the slightest bit cute while doing it). “Maybe I’ve always been curious about tattoos but was just waiting for the right artist to come along.”

Oh, he’s definitely not talking about a tattoo. 

“Come on, Felix, I really do like your work!” Sylvain says. “The cherry blossoms you did last month took my breath away.”

Felix crosses his arms. “So you follow my shop online. Big deal.”

“Um, Felix?” Ignatz bites his lip. “The other customers can hear you, and they don’t know your, er, history.”

Ignatz has a point, and once Felix realizes Sylvain isn’t the only one staring, his face gets hot. Turning down a customer isn’t the best look. 

“Fine,” Felix mutters. “Come to my office. But I make no promises.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

And then they’re alone, sitting at opposite ends of Felix’s tiny office. Even though he’s obviously not here for a tattoo, Sylvain makes a show of sifting through Felix’s portfolio,  _ ooh _ ing and  _ ahh _ ing as he goes. 

Felix is a professional. He is absolutely capable of pretending he did not indulge in erotic fantasies about the man in front of him last night and again this morning. 

“First of all, I’m not here about last night, so don’t worry,” says Sylvain, sending shivers up Felix’s spine. 

“Who said anything about last night?” Felix shoots back.

Sylvain puts his arms up in defense. “Sorry! Forget it even happened. I’m just here as a customer.”

_ Bullshit,  _ Felix wants to say. But that would be unprofessional. 

And besides, he won’t forget what happened last night without the help of a large quantity of alcohol. 

“Fine,” Felix finally says. “Let’s pretend you actually want a tattoo. What would you want? And if you say a sword, I will kick you out again.”

Sylvain looks up and smirks. “Nah. Your swords are amazing, but I’ve always been more of a lance guy myself.”

Felix can’t tell if that’s supposed to be an innuendo. “Okay, then what?”

“I don’t really know,” says Sylvain, and Felix is not at all surprised. But before he can cut in with a snippy remark, Sylvain goes on. “I’m going to be honest with you. I’ve always wanted a tattoo, but the idea didn’t come to me until last night.”

Felix braces himself for the worst.  _ You better not ask for  _ my _ name on your chest. _

“I’ve got a scar,” Sylvain goes on. “I’ve had it for most of my life, and I realized if I got a tattoo over it, I might be able to look at it and not be reminded of something awful for a change.”

Covering scars is a fairly common request, but it’s so far from what Felix expected that he blurts out, “What’s the scar from?”

Immediately, he regrets it. It’s such a personal question, too rude and too forward, and he starts to apologize, but Sylvain just looks him in the eye and says, “My brother pushed me into a well.” 

The room falls silent. Sylvain is so matter-of-fact about it, all Felix can say is, “That’s awful.”

Sylvain shrugs. “Well, he’s dead, so I guess he’s worse off than I am.”

Felix doesn’t know what to say to that. Now’s not the time to mention his own dead brother, but even though he’s still sad Glenn died so young, he’s glad Glenn wasn’t an asshole. 

“But I didn’t come here to tell you my sob story,” Sylvain says. “I was kind of hoping you could take a look at the scar and tell me what might work.”

That seems reasonable, and Felix can’t resist a design challenge. “Where’s the scar?” 

Sylvain stands and lifts the hem of his shirt with one hand, pulling the waist of his pants down with the other. Felix’s heart stutters in his chest. It’s hard to stare at anything but Sylvain’s abdomen—it’s covered with more of those freckles that make Felix feel things, not to mention the trail of auburn hair that runs through the center from just above his navel all the way down beneath his jeans. But Felix manages to tear his eyes away from Sylvain’s stomach to the mass of scar tissue on his right flank. It’s sort of pretty, in a grotesque way; a twisted mess of iridescent lines, converging on a healed gouge in the center like a whirlpool, pulling Felix in.

It almost reminds him of…

_ Oh, shit. _

“Getting any inspiration?” Sylvain asks.

Felix is inspired, all right, not to mention completely screwed, because now he wants—no,  _ needs  _ to turn that scar into a rose. An orange one, to match his freckles, with green leaves to offset the warm colors. 

It’s just his artist’s eye. There’s nothing special about Sylvain’s skin (even though it haunted his dreams all last night), and there’s no reason Felix can’t spend hours up close and personal with it. 

“Well?” Sylvain lets his shirt fall and Felix startles out of his daydream. 

“I…” But the words won’t come. So much for professionalism. “Paper.” 

Felix gropes for paper and a pencil on his desk and starts to sketch, because that’s easier than talking. The lines of Sylvain’s scar are etched in his memory now, and he recreates them perfectly, then embellishes then with petals and leaves that blend in seamlessly.

“Whoa…” Sylvain breathes it right next to Felix’s ear and Felix jumps, banging into his body. Large hands touch his arms to steady him, and for just a moment, Sylvain’s chest presses against Felix’s back. Sylvain chuckles, low and throaty. “Reminds me of last night.”

“Then this should feel familiar, too,” Felix mutters as he jerks out of Sylvain’s arms. Suddenly, it’s cold in his office—the sleeveless shirt was a bad choice. He picks up the sketch and holds it up for Sylvain. “What do you think of that?”

Sylvain takes a deep breath as he looks at the paper. “I can’t believe you looked at my scar and saw  _ that, _ ” he says.

“If you don’t like it, just say—”

“I love it.” Sylvain meets Felix’s eyes over the sketch and Felix can’t find anything but honesty. “It’s just...I can’t believe you turned an ugly scar into something so beautiful.”

“Don’t get too excited,” says Felix, more to himself than Sylvain. “I haven’t done it yet.”

Sylvain’s eyes brighten. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“It’s your decision,” says Felix, trying to sound nonchalant. “You’re the one who has to pay me.”

“That’s no big deal.” Sylvain’s gaze falls to Felix’s arms, and he cringes. “How long is it going to take?”

Felix smiles, maybe a little wickedly. “Afraid of needles?” 

“I can take the pain,” Sylvain says, and it’s definitely an innuendo. “It’s a fair question! I’ve never gotten a tattoo before.”

“It depends.” Felix reaches for a box of vibrant markers and asks, “How do you feel about color?”

“You can do anything you want to my skin,” says Sylvain. Another innuendo. 

Felix ignores him and pulls out the markers he wants. As Sylvain watches, he colors the rose, shading the petals and leaves in a way he knows will blend even better with the scar. “This is what I had in mind.”

“Damn…” Sylvain pulls up his shirt once more, twisting to look at his side. “Your art is beautiful, and I want to look at it every day for the rest of my life.”

If that’s an innuendo, it’s the sappiest one Felix has ever heard— _ or the most romantic, _ says his inner voice. But it’s nothing. Just his ego reacting to a good stroke. 

“Four hours,” says Felix, handing him the colored design. Four hours staring at Sylvain’s bare chest. Four hours with Sylvain. “Sleep on it.”

Sylvain holds the rose up to his side and nods slowly. “I’ll sleep on it. Yeah.” After a moment, he adds, “What do I owe you for the consultation?”

And even though he charges for designs, Felix sighs and says, “It’s on the house. Just don’t take it somewhere else.”

Sylvain blinks his wide brown eyes, but then they crinkle as he breaks into a grin. “How could I?” he asks, his voice soft. “You’re the only artist for me.” 

It’s definitely an innuendo, and Sylvain Jose Gautier is definitely not out of Felix’s system.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! I’m sorry there wasn’t any real sex in this chapter, but you know what’s coming next, right? 
> 
> Also, I did some research, but full disclosure: I have never gotten a tattoo. Let me know if anything is way off.


	4. now and for all time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain gets his tattoo and more.

**Recent Searches**

_ what does it mean when a famous tattoo artist designs a tattoo for you for free  _

_ how to tell if a guy likes you _

_ guy i like danced with me and left _

_ do tattoos hurt _

Online searching is worthless. Okay, it eases some of Sylvain’s fears about needles, but he doesn’t understand Felix any better than he did an hour ago. 

He tries a relationship forum instead.

**_How can I (25M) tell if a guy (23M) likes me?_ **

_ I’m bi but only dated women until recently. I have a crush on a super talented and somewhat famous tattoo artist, but on the night we met, let's just say I wasn’t at my best. He didn’t seem interested, but then we met again at a club (by chance, I’m not a creep) and we danced, and he definitely popped a boner. So did I. I mean, we were totally dry humping in the club, dick on dick. It was hot. But right when we were about to kiss, he left. _

_ I went to his tattoo shop the next day because I really like his art and want it on my body, but I didn’t hit on him because I’m not creepy and he ended up designing a custom tattoo for me for free. Does that mean anything? _

Sylvain almost mentions the nipple piercing because it’s all he’s been thinking about for the past 24 hours, but he decides it’s too specific and makes the post without it.

The first comment is...less than helpful. 

_ dude, mark this nsfw or take the dick stuff out, no one wants to hear that _

The other replies aren’t much more encouraging. 

_ He’s still going to make you pay for the tattoo, right? Do you really think he likes you because he’s doing his job? _

Sylvain ignores that one. And all the similar ones after it, until he finds a reply he likes.

_ ask him out. at least he thinks youre hot and you might get a one night stand out of it. _

A one night stand… It doesn’t sound nearly as appealing as it should. Not that Sylvain doesn’t want to sleep with Felix—he wants that more than anything. But he also wants to know Felix’s favorite foods and what all his tattoos mean and how he takes his coffee, not to mention he has a burning need to fuck Felix more ways than they can possibly accomplish in one night. 

And on top of all that, he wants the tattoo. 

Sylvain calls the shop, but Felix doesn’t pick up. 

“Felix is off this afternoon, but maybe I can be helping you?” 

It’s the girl who works at the shop—she’s hot, and Sylvain remembers her tribal tattoos, but he’s so bummed about missing Felix that he doesn’t even want to flirt with her. 

Is he even bi anymore? Did Felix turn him totally gay?

“He designed a tattoo for me yesterday, and I want to go through with it,” Sylvain told her. “Can he squeeze me in?”

Poor (or excellent) choice of words, but Sylvain hears a keyboard clacking on the other end so the girl probably didn’t notice. 

“Oh, you are the man with the matching rose, are you not?” 

Sylvain blinks. “Matching?” 

“Felix was making doodles all of the morning,” she explains. “It is rare to see him being so invested in such a simple design.”

Sylvain’s heart leaps.  _ Take that, relationship forum.  _ “So he’s excited about it?”

“Hmm…” More clacking. “I believe  _ agitated  _ is a better word. But I am not a native speaker. How about four o’clock on Thursday?”

Sylvain will have to get off work early, but he’s willing to do anything. He takes the appointment and hopes that  _ agitated _ is not in fact a better word. 

Somehow (okay, with the help of a bunch of porn featuring guys with tattoos—something search engines are actually good at finding), Sylvain makes it to Thursday.

He stands outside Aegis Ink and rubs his scar through his shirt, wondering which will hurt more: the tattoo or the sting of rejection.

With a deep breath, he pushes the door open. Felix doesn’t look up; he’s with another customer, bent over their back, hard at work. 

Felix sweeps a lock of hair out of his eyes as he fills in a line, hands as steady as a surgeon’s. His lips are pressed together, so thick they jut out in a subtle, accidental pout. Sylvain wants to run his finger over them, taste them, feel them around his cock.

But he can’t think about that now, even if it’s a soothing contrast to the buzz of needles.

Felix finishes, and Sylvain bites his lip as he watches Felix bandage the tattoo. It’s not sexual, but in Sylvain’s mind it could be, like those scenes in movies where the love interest tends the hero’s wounds and then they have passionate sex in the infirmary. 

Once Felix runs through the aftercare procedure, he cleans his tools meticulously, still not looking in Sylvain’s direction. Sylvain doesn’t mind waiting and watching. Other piercers and artists are working, but Sylvain barely notices them, because everything Felix does is mesmerizing.

Finally, Felix looks up, right into Sylvain’s eyes like he knew where he was all along.

“You ready?” he asks.

Sylvain swallows and nods. 

“I’m ready for you,” Felix says, and it’s a direct shot to Sylvain’s dick. He takes Sylvain to a different chair, already set up with the colors Sylvain recognizes from Felix’s mock up. “Take your shirt off.”

Sylvain does what he’s told without hesitation, and Felix’s only reaction is the slightest dilation of his pupils. It’s only natural—Felix sees a lot of naked bodies for his work, and Sylvain is too nervous to fish for compliments. 

Felix’s eyes snap to Sylvain’s trembling hands. “Scared?”

There’s no point in lying to him now. “I talk a big game but I’m actually terrified of needles,” Sylvain admits.

Instead of mocking him, Felix nods. “I hear that a lot. But I’m good at what I do and I’ll talk to you the whole time.” He clears his throat and adds, “If you want.”

“You can tattoo my entire body if it means I get to listen to you talk,” Sylvain blurts out.

Felix just rolls his eyes and starts sketching on his skin. A preview, even prettier on his body than on sketch paper, lined up with his scar like it was meant to be there. “Is this what you pictured?”

Sylvain’s eyes flick from the drawing to the roses on Felix’s arms. The girl on the phone was right: they do match. 

“It’s perfect,” Sylvain says. 

“Cool. If you need a break, just say so and I’ll stop.” Felix picks up the pen of his tattoo machine, fills the needle with black ink, and says, “Think of something sexy.”

“What?!” Sylvain chokes out.

Felix smirks. “Can’t have you shaking. I normally tell nervous clients to think of something that makes them happy to calm down, but I know what makes you happy.” He spreads the fingers of his other hand across Sylvain’s side and pulls the skin tight. Dropping his voice, he asks, “Are you thinking about me?”

He’s looking at Sylvain’s waist but Sylvain is focused on Felix’s face—his brow, crinkled low over his deep set eyes, the way he bites the inside of his lip, the piercing on the other side of his mouth. “Yeah,” 

“Good.” And Felix puts the needle to his skin. 

It hurts, like hundreds of tiny shots in rapid succession. Sylvain hisses in pain. 

“You okay?” Felix asks. 

Sylvain manages to nod. “Don’t stop.”

Only the thought of saying that to Felix in a different context gets him through. 

“The outline’s the worst part,” Felix says as he fills in black lines on Sylvain’s skin. “Or so I’ve been told.” 

“Didn’t yours hurt?” Sylvain asks through gritted teeth.

“Not really.” Felix remains utterly devoted to his work as he adds. “I have a pretty high tolerance for pain.”

Fuck, that’s sexy—not that Sylvain wants to hurt him (not unless he wants to be hurt, in any case). “That explains all the piercings,” says Sylvain. “Which one hurt the most?”

“My cock.”

Felix throws it out there so casually Sylvain almost jumps out of the chair. “You gotta stop shocking me like that, Felix.”

“Sorry,” says Felix, finally cracking a smile. “I don’t actually have my cock pierced, anyway. Just wanted to see how you’d react.”

“Well, now I’m disappointed,” jokes Sylvain. He’s not disappointed at all, especially since the needle hurts less when he and Felix are smiling at each other. 

“I guess the nipple hurt the most,” Felix goes on. “But it’s definitely the most fun.”

And if that isn’t an invitation to play with his nipples again sometime, Sylvain doesn’t know what it is. 

Felix works fast—no mistakes, no shaking, and the outline is done. “You want some water?” he asks as he cleans the equipment for the next color.

Sylvain shakes his head, just happy to have a moment without needles in his skin. It hits him when he looks down at the black outline etched on his side: he’s going to have this forever. His parents would be so disappointed. 

It’s even better than he imagined. 

“Ready for more?” Felix asks, a wicked little smile on his face. 

“From you?” Sylvain grins back. “Always.”

Felix starts in with orange, and if it hurts less, Sylvain can’t tell. He grips the arms of the chair and clenches his jaw.

“What do you do?” 

Felix’s question is so mundane, it catches Sylvain off guard, and he has to think about the answer. “I’m an editor. I edit books. Sometimes I write them, but usually I just take extra semicolons out of other people’s books.” 

“You write?” Felix blinks, though his hand doesn’t waver. “You don’t look like the type.”

“That’s why I need the tattoo,” Sylvain says. “For the aesthetic.” 

Felix laughs, just a quick puff of his chest, and says, “Then I guess you’ll be asking me to put some inspirational quote on your back after this.”

“Definitely,” says Sylvain. “What was it you said about your nipple piercing being the most fun? Now  _ that’s _ inspirational.”

“I’d rather just pierce your nipple,” says Felix without batting an eye.

Sylvain bites down on his tongue in shock. “You really need to stop doing that,” he says, even as the pain in his mouth distracts from the pain of the needle.

“Sorry.” Felix switches colors and says, “Tell me why you started writing.”

And Sylvain starts to gush, about his old friend Bernadetta and the stories she used to write, the ones they wrote together, about how it was a good escape from his shitty family, especially his shitty brother. “What about your family? What do they think of your whole needles and pain thing?”

Felix makes a thoughtful sound, barely audible over the hum of the machine. “My dad doesn’t get it, but he’s supportive enough. He stopped asking why a long time ago. But my brother thought it was cool.”

“Thought?”

Felix frowns. “He died while I was doing my apprenticeship. That’s why I came back.”

“I’m sorry,” says Sylvain. Felix was only 23, so it can’t have been that long ago. 

“I’m sorry your brother was an ass,” Felix replies. “Mine wasn’t. He was a smartass, but he was a good guy.”

“Do you have a tattoo for him?” The words slip out before Sylvain realizes how personal they are, but maybe Felix owes him for asking about the scar.

Felix rolls his eyes. “No. Glenn’s dead. I don’t need a tattoo to remind me of him, and he sure as shit doesn’t care.”

It’s pragmatic, if a little cold. 

“My tattoos are for me,” Felix goes on. “The only meaning behind them is that I love creating them. Not everything has to be deep.”

“And yet you wouldn’t let me tattoo that chick’s name on my chest,” Sylvain says, watching Felix shade the flower petals. 

“Drunk customers are lawsuits waiting to happen,” Felix tells him. “And I know I wouldn’t want to stare at someone else’s name while I fucked you.”

Sylvain goes rigid again. “Felix! You’re going to make me wreck it!”

“You won’t,” says Felix with a smirk. “Trust me.”

To his surprise, Sylvain does trust him. The tattoo looks flawless so far, or at least as flawless as raw skin can be. And now that Felix’s comment about fucking him has really soaked in, Sylvain summons his sexiest voice. 

“Are you saying you want to fuck me?”

The question hangs in the air as Felix leans in, so close Sylvain can feel the heat radiating from his body. Laser-focused, Felix finishes the tattoo and pulls back to admire his work. “Unfortunately,” Felix begins, voice low, quiet. “I do.”

Neither of them breathes for a moment. Sylvain forgets the irritation in his side as his entire world distills into Felix’s eyes burning brightly back at him. Something cool shocks Sylvain’s tender side and he shivers. Felix is dabbing cotton on his skin like it’s something precious, cleaning the wound with much more care than he did the last customer. 

“Well?” 

Sylvain knows Felix is asking about the tattoo, and he tears his eyes away from Felix’s. The rose is puffy, a little red, but it’s one of the most beautiful things Sylvain has ever seen. 

“I love it.”

Silence falls again, quiet enough to hear a needle drop, and Sylvain glances around the shop. It’s empty except for them.

“Don’t post pictures until it heals,” Felix says as he prepares a bandage. “Or if you have to, don’t tag me. I hate that.” 

“I won’t,” Sylvain promises, gaze drifting back to his tattoo. Felix’s elegant hands dress and wrap the wound, gentle as a whisper. Sylvain holds his breath, and once it’s done, he takes a chance.

He covers Felix’s hand with his own. “Felix, I—”

Felix cuts him off with a kiss. 

Everything—the pain, Sylvain’s nerves, his pounding heart—fades away, dulled by the electricity of Felix’s lips on his. Sylvain lifts his head, tilts it to return the kiss and coax Felix’s mouth open. Still holding Felix’s hand, he indulges the urge he’s been bottling since the first night they met; he threads his fingers into Felix’s hair. It’s thick and smooth like satin, and Felix lets out a soft sigh when Sylvain’s fingernails graze his scalp. Felix presses his free hand to Sylvain’s stomach and runs it up his body, through the coarse hair in the center before veering to the side to squeeze his chest like Sylvain isn’t the only one living out a fantasy right now.

Sylvain gasps out loud when Felix crawls on top of him, careful to avoid his tattoo. Surely the chair can’t support both of them, but it doesn’t even creak under their combined weight. Then, Felix is straddling his hips, grinding on him like they did at the club, and Sylvain stops worrying about the chair entirely.

Breaking the kiss, Sylvain whispers, “I should thank you for the tattoo and leave right about now.”

Felix nips at his neck. “I got overwhelmed, okay? But I thought it over and I want this, if you do.”

“What do you want?” Sylvain asks, shivering as Felix’s cock drags across his own, staggeringly good even with too many layers of fabric between them.

Felix pulls up to look into his eyes, cupping his face far too tenderly for making out in a tattoo chair. “I want to have sex with you, here and now.” 

It pulls a low moan from Sylvain, totally out of his control, and he surges up to kiss Felix once more. Felix’s arm brushes his waist in the process and Sylvain hisses in pain and falls back into the chair. Felix shoots him a stern look. 

“Be careful. It’s going to take a couple weeks for that to heal.”

“Hey, you bumped me!” Sylvain protests. But he isn’t deterred. Carefully, he tries again, pulling Felix down to him this time. Felix lets out a ragged breath and rocks against him, just as hard as Sylvain beneath his jeans. 

“How are we—” Sylvain pulls away to begin. “I always have condoms but no—”

Felix presses a finger to his lips and pulls a strip of condoms and a tube of lube from his pocket. “Don’t ask questions,” he snaps as a grin spreads across Sylvain’s face. 

Oh, Felix didn’t just  _ give it some thought.  _ He  _ planned _ this. 

Sylvain does have one question, though. With other guys back in college, he was always the one doing the fucking. Felix said something about fucking him, and Sylvain’s up for anything, but he’s really rusty on the one side of the equation and completely green on the other. 

“Have you ever fucked a customer before?” Sylvain asks, as naturally as he can. 

“Yes,” Felix says, still a bit pink from kissing Sylvain and revealing his hand. 

“In the chair right after a tattoo?” 

“Never.” Felix never breaks eye contact. “I know I said I wanted to stare at your chest, but it’ll be easier to avoid your tattoo if I turn around.”

Now Sylvain gets it. Felix wants to take the lead,  _ and _ he wants Sylvain inside of him. 

“On one condition,” Sylvain says, even though he’s more than fine with that arrangement. Felix arches his pierced eyebrow, and Sylvain reaches for the hem of his shirt. It slips over Felix’s head easily, revealing all the tattoos Sylvain had only glimpsed through mesh and dim lighting. “Much better.”

He wants to study each one in loving detail, but he lets himself hope for  _ later _ and takes Felix in his arms to taste his kiss again. And because he’s going to be staring at Felix’s back soon, he works one hand between them, brushing over Felix’s nipples. Of course, he settles on the pierced one—it’s a straight barbell today, not a ring, and Sylvain gives it a quick tug. The gasp Felix sucks in is nothing short of spectacular, so Sylvain does it again, playing with the bar while he flicks the tip until Felix is writhing in his lap and working his belt off. 

Felix rises to his knees to undo his jeans and Sylvain admires the constellations on his chest. They remind him of his own freckles, only prettier. But as soon as he tries to trace them, Felix starts taking his pants off and all Sylvain can do is stare at Felix’s cock. 

It’s not pierced, but even though it’s been years since Sylvain’s been this close to another guy’s dick, he knows it’s the prettiest one he’s ever seen. It’s not as thick as his own, but it’s got this elegant curve that would probably hit the back of Sylvain’s throat just right. 

While Sylvain gawks, Felix clicks his tongue. “Do I have to do everything?” 

He starts to pull Sylvain’s pants down and Sylvain lifts his ass to help. It pulls at his tattoo a little and he bites back a wince. 

The moment Felix lays wide, awestruck eyes on Sylvain’s dick, the pain disappears.

“Yeah,” Sylvain says. “It’s big.”

“Don’t ruin this for me,” Felix mutters, still gaping. His hands, so steady with needles, hover over Sylvain’s cock, shaking, and Sylvain offers him a reassuring smile.

“You can touch it if you want.”

Felix narrows his eyes, but he takes a deep breath and wraps one hand around the base.

Felix could have punched him in the waist, right over his bandage, and Sylvain would have thanked him and asked for another. 

Lazily, Felix runs his hand up Sylvain’s cock, all the way to the tip and back down. It makes Sylvain dizzy, but he pulls his head together enough to do the same for Felix, tracing that graceful arc as he goes. A soft sigh escapes Felix’s lips, and Sylvain sits up in the chair to stroke Felix’s waist in time with his cock. 

Felix is inked down to his hips, a mix of ornate swords and intricate patterns in dark colors. It’s hard to know where to look—his skin, his face, his cock—so Sylvain tries to take him all in. Just like when they were dancing, he wants to rub their dicks together until they both come, but ever since Felix mentioned it, Sylvain’s aching to be inside him. With one last, luxurious pull, he releases Felix’s cock and Felix grabs the condoms. 

He thrusts one at Sylvain and rips open another. 

“I’m not making a mess of my own shop,” Felix explains, sheathing his cock. Sylvain does the same, but he grabs Felix’s arm before Felix can turn away from him. 

“Hey, just so you know, I haven’t done this in a long time,” says Sylvain. “Could you, you know…” 

Sylvain makes a hole with his fingers and gestures fucking it with his other hand. 

“You seriously can’t even say it?” Felix rolls his eyes. “Yes, I can finger myself.”

That sends a pulse through Sylvain’s body, and the light glinting off of Felix’s nipple piercing triggers another. Sylvain leans in to covet it with his mouth, flicking the barb with his tongue just to make Felix eat his words. 

Sylvain pulls off and Felix gives him one last look, intense, almost dark, before turning around. He settles, knees on either side of Sylvain’s thighs and cute little ass angled up in the air. The chair isn’t really big enough for two people, but Felix doesn’t take up much room. 

It’s easier when Sylvain’s staring at his back, to pretend he doesn’t want to invite Felix back to his place and get coffee the next morning, then buy him drinks or dinner every night for the rest of his life. 

Sylvain focuses on Felix’s tattoos instead, on the abstract shapes and swirling lines. It’s surreal, the way they interconnect, but then Felix is arching that gorgeous back and reaching behind himself with slick fingers, and Sylvain’s brain clicks off.

Maybe it’s because it’s new and exciting, but Sylvain has never seen anything so sexy as Felix fucking himself open on his own hand. All Sylvain can do is hold Felix’s hips as he works yet another finger inside, rocking on Sylvain’s lap. Felix barely makes a sound, just little gasps here and there, but Sylvain can’t comprehend anything else. 

His dick has never been this hard, and the amount of precome inside his condom has to be ridiculous. 

Felix slides his fingers out and says, “Help me out, Sylvain,” as he lifts his ass, flashing his pink rim.

Heart pounding, Sylvain guides Felix to his cock. Felix reaches back once more to grab Sylvain’s shaft and lowers himself, slow and easy, onto the head.

Sylvain inhales as Felix exhales—his ass is so tight, and the unmarked skin is a stark contrast to his ink-covered back. Felix sinks lower and Sylvain cries out. 

Felix freezes. 

“No, it’s good,” Sylvain assures him, squeezing his hips. “Don’t stop.” 

Nodding once, Felix keeps going, creeping lower, stretching around Sylvain’s cock until, fuck, he’s bottomed out. They take deep breaths in unison. It takes everything Sylvain has not to come on the spot at the sight of Felix’s cheeks spread wide over his cock. He thinks of the needles, of the pain in his side, but still, his cock jumps inside Felix.

“Easy,” says Felix. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Sylvain hopes he never will be.

Before that thought sets in, Felix starts to move. 

It’s not the rough fucking Sylvain imagined at the club—it’s a slow grind, Felix arching his back and working his hips as he slides up and down Sylvain’s cock. The designs on his back are almost hypnotic, lulling Sylvain into a fucked-out stupor before they’ve even really started. He moans and lets his head fall back in the chair, one hand on Felix’s hip and the other on the small of his back, rubbing small circles into his skin. 

Felix is making more noise now, soft groans on every downstroke, growing louder as he picks up speed. Thank goodness for the condom; otherwise Sylvain would have bust a nut by now. 

“Fuck, that’s good,” Sylvain murmurs to urge him along. It’s an understatement—Felix is fire around him, all blazing heat and friction, and even though Sylvain could just lie back and let him do all the work, he can only spectate for so long. He grasps Felix’s ass with both hands to bounce him higher, watching his own cock disappear and reappear like some kind of carnal magic. Someone has to have fucked Sylvain like this at least once, but he can’t seem to remember anything before Felix. 

Felix grips the arms of the chair, bucking wilder on Sylvain’s cock unleashing moan after moan. There’s no reconciling this Felix, who whips his loose hair around with abandon and casts euphoric looks over his shoulder at Sylvain, with the taunting, controlled Felix who sat down on his cock in the first place. Sylvain accepts the challenge with his whole heart: to decipher this man and learn every facet of his being. 

But that’s his last rational thought, because he once Felix starts jerking himself it’s all over. Sylvain clutches his hips with all his might, heat and pressure building in his gut like an avalanche waiting to fall. “Come on, Felix,” he growls out, canting his hips as much as he can manage. It must hit something, because a broken cry rips out of Felix and then he’s coming, grinding on Sylvain’s cock and pumping his own like his life depends on it. 

It almost sounded like he called Sylvain’s name, but once Felix starts clenching around his dick, Sylvain can’t hear a thing—his orgasm roars through his body like wildfire, rendering him helpless as he spills into Felix, coming longer and harder than he’s ever come before. 

Once his faculties return, he has to force himself to loosen his grip on Felix’s hips. He probably left bruises, and he murmurs an apology. 

Felix glances over his shoulder, dazed but angry. “Don’t say you’re sorry after we just had sex.”

“No, I’m not sorry about that,” Sylvain corrects himself. “Your hips, I squeezed you too tight.”

“I would have told you if I didn’t like it,” Felix replies, carefully lifting off of Sylvain’s lap. Sylvain’s cock droops, spent and sated for the first time since he met Felix, and Sylvain takes the condom off and ties it, careful not to spill anything. Endorphins rush through his body, telling his brain all sorts of strange things like  _ marry Felix _ and  _ never let him go. _

Obviously, he’s not going to say any of that, but the thought that this could be their first and last time breaks his heart. 

Felix has already taken care of his own condom, and he bends down to retrieve his pants from the floor. 

“Keep that bandage on for 3 hours,” Felix says, still a little winded but otherwise all business. “Then you’ll want to wash it and apply ointment twice a day. And always wash your hands first—really wash them, Sylvain, not a quick rinse. Watch it like a hawk for infection. ” 

Sylvain pouts. Felix is turning the afterglow into aftercare instructions, and as important as they are, the shift jars him. Sylvain slides his pants back up his hips. 

Felix hands him his shirt and a piece of paper with more detailed instructions, then sets about sterilizing the tools he abandoned for sex. 

It’s confusing—should Sylvain just pay off the tattoo and leave, come back in a few weeks for another tattoo and hope Felix wants to do it again? No. That’s too depressing. All the emotions swirling in Sylvain’s gut tell him to take a chance, and he places himself in front of Felix.

“Can I buy you dinner?” 

Felix almost drops his ink pots. “Tonight?”

It’s cute, how his voice quivers, until Sylvain thinks about why Felix might be nervous. 

Maybe he thinks Sylvain just wanted sex, just a one night stand. Maybe Sylvain did, at some point, but everything’s different now, and if he doesn’t try for more, he’s going to regret it for the rest of his life. 

“I like you,” Sylavin says. “And I want to see you again. It doesn’t have to be tonight, but I’d really like it to be.”

Slowly, Felix looks up to meet his eyes. Hints of the afterglow still shine through, and Felix nods. “I can do dinner.” 

Dinner turns into drinks, which turns into staying the night, which turns into moving in together a year later. One tattoo becomes two: a blue rose on Sylvain’s back to go with the orange. It’s sentimental, but Felix doesn’t just allow it, he has Ignatz do an orange rose on his ass to match.

“Now you’ll have a piece of me with you wherever you go,” Sylvain says as he rubs lotion on the still-healing tattoo. He’s much more touched by the gesture than he can express.

“Right on my ass so I don’t have to look at it.”

Sylvain laughs. Anything short of outright denial is enough, and when Felix turns and smiles back at him, it says more than words ever could. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _let's get  
>  tattoos together, something to remember  
> if it's way too soon, fuck it, whatever  
> give me shapes and letters, if it's not forever  
> then at least we'll have tattoos together_
> 
> Lauv - Tattoos Together
> 
> ———
> 
> This is soooo not sanitary but they had to fuck in the chair. They had to! 
> 
> This story was so much fun to write. Thanks so much to OP for the wonderful prompt, thanks to that anon on the anon meme who encouraged me along the way, and thanks to all readers. Your clicks, kudos, and comments kept me going. 
> 
> I really like this one, so maybe I’ll deanon one day, but in the meantime, I’ll see you for the next fill!
> 
> (chapter titles came from Night Sky by CHVRCHES, inspiration from Tattoos Together by Lauv and Break My Heart by Dua Lipa)


End file.
